


May I come in?

by orsaverba



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, College student!Peter, M/M, MysteryWeb, MysteryWeb 5+1 Spooky Challenge, QuinPeter, Spidersterio, Vampire!Quentin, spiderio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 05:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orsaverba/pseuds/orsaverba
Summary: At midnight there come three knocks on Peter's door. Tonight, he opens it.





	May I come in?

**Author's Note:**

> A quick piece I wrote for the 5+1 Spooky Challenge that @mystery_web is hosting over on Twitter.
> 
> I'm honestly so impressed and delighted by the community around this ship. Everyone I've met so far is so incredibly positive and welcoming, so I'm glad I'm getting to join in!

**October 26th : **A Night Alone

Ned's customary "goodnight" text arrived at 11:27. There was a promise of comparing notes from their morning lectures when they met up on campus, then silence. Peter stared at his phone screen for what felt like an hour, thumbs hovered over the keyboard. When he looked up, the clock above his mantle said it was 11:30.

He wasn't sure why, for the seventh night in a row, he was hesitating. For years there hadn't been a single thing in his life he didn't share with Ned. One text and Ned would come over to spend the night, whether he explained why he wanted him there or not. Yet, he said nothing. 

11:32 rolled around and Peter put his phone on the coffee table before falling onto his threadbare couch. He tossed an arm over his eyes, blanketing his vision in muddy black. If he just laid here, maybe sleep would come for him before the hour turned over. 

The knocking had begun a week ago.

The previous Monday, he had been on edge. For the whole day he had walked around with hackles raised, jumpy as a spooked animal. Something, which he couldn't put his finger on, lingered on the edges of his awareness. Peter had gone home and locked every window and door in his apartment, then positioned himself in bed and under the covers. An early night would cure him of his creeping paranoia, he was sure. 

At exactly midnight, there was a knock on his front door. It came in three brief, concise raps, ringing sharply through the empty apartment. The noise had woken Peter from a dead sleep, through two rooms and his bedroom door. He'd laid there, silent, almost sure he'd imagined it, when it came again.

Three sharp raps, then silence. Another few minutes passed, then a third time, the same knock. 

Every night since had been the same and every day Peter swore to himself he'd tell someone about it. Once was creepy, twice unnerving, but seven days in a row was definitely indicative of something sinister. He _ should _ tell someone, yet he always convinced himself not to. It was just knocking, after all.

Only, it wasn't, and he knew that too. 

The Tuesday after the knocking began, Peter caught the eye of a man across the street from his campus. He had a steaming coffee in one hand and a paper under his arm, the collar of his coat pulled up to guard his neck from chill. For whatever reason, his piercing blue eyes were staring straight at Peter, and held his gaze until Ned called his name. When he looked back, the man was walking away.

He came face to face with him the next day. 

"Quentin Beck." he had introduced, charming smile on his handsome face. "I'm considering a teaching position here."

Peter could remember stumbling through a conversation, distracted by Quentin's good looks and eloquent speech. What he'd said was lost to time. All he could recall was the way Quentin smoothed over every lapse in conversation and drove their talk on until Peter's whole break had passed him by. 

Each night, Peter anticipated the knocking. Each day, he looked forward to another talk with Quentin. He was intellectual and well read, empathetic and willing to listen as Peter rambled on. There was no denying his attraction to the man.

Quentin was odd, though. He always wore the same coat, the collar up, scarf around his neck. Though he twice bought coffee in Peter's presence, Peter couldn't remember him ever drinking it. Somehow, they always ended up inside, or under the shade of a tree or awning. Every time Peter asked him a question about himself, the answer always spun back on itself until they were talking about Peter, or one of his interests again. 

On Saturday, Peter observed that Quentin's eyes reflected light strangely. In the dark, they became almost like the glowing pinpricks of a beast, hidden in folds of shadow. He knew this, because he saw them from a block away as he walked home that evening. 

Peter lifted his arm and peeked over at the clock again. The hands had moved from 11:32 to 11:45.

He got up and stretched before shuffling off towards the bathroom to brush his teeth. Once done, he went to his bedroom. The clock on his desk read 11:50. He opened the desk drawer and lifted a small box from it, inside of which was a rosary. 

Peter wasn't religious, really. Aunt May hadn't been either, and he couldn't remember ever attending church, except for twice with a childhood friend when he slept over on weekends. The rosary had been his grandmother's, according to May. She'd given it to him as a good luck charm when he'd moved out at the beginning of his freshman year of college.

Tonight was the first time he'd taken it out of its box, let alone put it on. He felt almost silly doing so. Would it mean anything? Does a token of faith even work if you don't have any faith yourself? 

Peter tucked the rosary under his shirt and straightened his collar. He shut his desk drawer and went back to the living room. 

11:55

11:56

11:57

11:58

11:59

_ Tap-tap-tap _

The first knock echoed through the apartment like the gong of a bell. 

Peter stood at his front door, staring at the peephole with every intent to look through it. Even as he took his last step towards the door, he knew he wouldn't. He knew what lay on the other side.

Instead, he turned both deadbolts and then, the final lock above the knob. Apprehension knotted itself in his gut, his survival instinct weakly scampering between fight and flight. Peter's hand closed around the doorknob and pulled, dragging the door open.

"Hello, Peter." Quentin said. "May I come in?"

The flickering fluorescent light from behind him cast shifting shadows over Quentin Beck's face. Like seeing him through water, Peter watched his features sharpen and soften with the movement of the light.

"No." he said, firmly.

Quentin only blinked.

"Would you care to step outside, then?" he offered. "We could go for a walk."

"No, thank you. I don't think I'll do that either."

"It's a beautiful night. The moon is out, even if you can't see the stars."

Peter stood his ground, staring steadily into clear blue eyes. Quentin stared back and Peter couldn't help wondering what he saw. Did he look as uneasy as he felt, or was there a mask of bravery on his face?

Time ticked by. Maybe minutes, perhaps only seconds, before Peter spoke.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Generally, if someone wants to have a conversation, it's polite to invite them inside." Quentin said, idly. "But sure."

"I get that you can't come in uninvited, but if all I have to do is come outside, then what stops you from getting me during the day?"

The way Quentin's expression shifted was like watching a piece of animation with missing frames. As if he moved without moving, even while Peter watched him. Not seconds ago, his face had been one of aloof charm, Peter had _ seen _it. But had he? Could he be sure? It felt like the fanged grin of the monster before him couldn't possibly belong to the same person, and yet it did.

The most unsettling thing about Quentin wasn't the knowledge of what he was. Not the sickly sharp canines or the statuesque stillness, or the implication of his presence in Peter's life. What was most disturbing was that for whatever reason, Peter wasn't _ afraid _ of him. 

A creature from mankind's nightmares towered over him, sharp-toothed and hungry, with pupils like a cat. Something ancient lived in his eyes, a breadth of knowledge and worldliness Peter couldn't hope to achieve in a human lifetime. 

And Peter was drawn to it. 

"I could." Quentin said. "I could have come for you any time at all."

"What are you waiting for, then?"

"For you to let me in all on your own."

As Peter stood there, absorbing the implications of this statement, he realized that some part of him had been aware of this for days. He couldn't pinpoint when, or how he'd come to that conclusion, but he had. It was glaringly obvious in the face of everything and he had chosen to ignore it. He wanted to blame that ignorance on fear.

But, he'd opened the door tonight. All on his own.

"Not tonight." Peter said. "I still won't come out, either."

Quentin's ghoulish smile had gone and back was the face of the man Peter swooned over in the daylight hours. He smiled, but this time it was a small, indulgent thing. The sweet at the end of a meal.

"Very well. Perhaps another time, then."

The vampire turned almost a perfect ninety degrees and inclined his head in a wordless farewell, then set off down the hall towards the stairs. Peter felt himself leaning over his threshold to watch him go.

"Quentin!"

At this, the vampire paused, then turned his head a fraction. A barely noticeable twitch. 

Peter, who had called out before thinking better of it, opened his mouth and let his first thought spill out.

"I'll see you tomorrow night."


End file.
